


A Gift, Undeserved

by 64K



Series: Justice or Mercy (Clive gen oneshots) [1]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Unwound Future, layton semi-adopting clive is my favourite thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/64K/pseuds/64K
Summary: Clive can hardly refuse the professor's offer of a place to stay after his release. He has no money, after all, and no family, and the professor is kind, so kind, to give him this chance.If only he was actually deserving of such trust.
Relationships: Clive & Hershel Layton
Series: Justice or Mercy (Clive gen oneshots) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749358
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	A Gift, Undeserved

Clive's knees seem to nearly touch the ceiling of the cozy little Laytonmobile. He fidgets, trying to sit tall, trying to act like a gentleman, for the sake of the gentleman in the driver's seat. It's hard to act refined, though, when your knees seem to reach up to your ears, and when your stomach is roiling with trepidation. He glances towards the backseat. His little suitcase, packed with his clothes, family photos and sketchbooks, still sits on the back bench. Everything that he owns is in that suitcase. There's nothing left of his in the hospital; he's finally leaving, for good.

He lets his head fall back against the headrest, and watches the countryside pass on by, and watches that horrible white building grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. So many times now, for months, for years, Clive's seen the professor drive away, back towards London, in his little red car. He can't count the number of times that he's watched the car disappear off into the distance through the window of the psychiatric hospital. This time, though, Clive isn't watching that familiar scene: he's a part of it. He's with the professor, travelling back towards London, going h—

"You don't really want me," Clive hears himself say, as though through a tunnel.

"Don't speak nonsense, my boy." The professor's gaze stays fixated on the road, never wavering. Still, Clive watches his face intently, for any sign that he's lying.

"I'm only speaking the truth, professor," Clive says lightly, matter-of-factly. He tries to slouch in the seat to display his nonchalance; he'd put his arms behind his head if he wouldn't elbow the professor in the face. "It's not as if I'll be able to contribute to your household at all. Nobody would dream of hiring me. I'll be just another mouth to feed."

He half-expects the professor to laugh off his words, or to argue with him, but Layton frowns. "Nonsense. It's my pleasure to help you get back on your feet."

He _says_ that. He always _says_ that.

When Clive was alone in the holding cell, when he was on trial, with the eyes of the nation watching his every move, the professor was always there, always smiling, always offering words of encouragement. When Clive was sent to the psychiatric hospital, the professor had followed. Clive hadn't wanted anyone to know the address of the hospital. He refused to use Spring, Cogg, or Shipley any longer. Even if they 'chose' to visit him, it would surely only be out of obligation. He didn't want to see them suffering through having to see him again. It was better if he faded out of their lives quietly, so that he wouldn't cause them any more pain. But the professor had come, regardless.

Clive didn't know how he'd tracked him down; whether it was through an officer at the Yard, or whether the newspapers had published what was supposed to be confidential information. It didn't matter— Clive had woken up one morning, wishing he hadn't woken at all, only to find the professor waiting for him on the other side of the glass window. "I thought you might appreciate a visit from a friend," he'd said, smiling pleasantly, tipping his hat, and Clive couldn't find it in his heart to laugh him away, despite how ludicrous the idea of Hershel being his _friend_ was.

The professor came, week in and week out, without fail, even though Clive hadn't deserved a visitor. When Clive had protested, the professor would only smile, in his soft sort of way, and say that it was his pleasure. Clive knew in his heart, however, that the professor must be lying. Nobody wanted to see him, not without some ulterior motive.

It had to be a… a trick, or a lie, or some sort of torture or punishment that the professor had inflicted upon himself. He couldn't enjoy being with Clive. It's impossible. At the best, Clive is a… a way for the professor to feel better about himself, Something evil and horrible, something that the professor bravely struggles against, only, in the end, to emerge victorious, strong because of his struggles against this monster, a means to become a saint.

But he enjoyed those visits so much, even if it was all a lie.

The day that the professor invited him to come and stay with him, after he was 'better,' he hadn't known what to say.

 _Think about it,_ the professor had said, rising to leave the room. _It's an offer; all I ask is that you consider it._

There'd been nothing to consider. Clive had no money, no family, not anymore. The professor had been kind to him, despite his eccentricities and despite his past crimes. It was an offer that he couldn't very well refuse.

The only issue was how undeserving he was of such mercy.

The buildings of London draw nearer. The green of the countryside fades into cold greys and browns. Clive's stomach flips and turns with every rotation of the Laytonmobile's wheels. He doesn't belong here; not after what he's done.

"What if I _don't_ get back on my feet?"

Clive realizes, too late, that it's been many minutes since the professor had spoken, and that Hershel's thoughts have most likely moved on, but the words won't stop flowing from his mouth. "I'm just an—an obligation, aren't I? Or a charity case. I make you feel _so_ much better about yourself, don't I, professor? _Well,_ that won't last long, if I live with you. Your life will be hell, once I'm in your home. You'll wish you'd never seen my face. I'll hurt you again, and Flora, and Luke, and, and, and…"

"Helping you is my _pleasure,_ Clive." The professor spoke firmly, his fingers tightenings ever-so-slightly around the wheel. "Because—"

"Because that's what a true gentleman does, correct?" Clive spits out the words, no longer able to control his tone of voice. "Because a true gentleman's joy is to bestow mercy upon his enemies."

"Because I care about you, Clive."

Clive stops dead, searching the professor's face. Hershel's eyes hold no dishonesty.

It's impossible.

Clive shudders. He turns away, staring out of the window, desperately watching the cars, the buildings, anything. "You can't," he says quietly, his bravado all but gone. "I've only ever caused you pain."

"Hardly." The professor's eyes dart towards the rear view mirror, then return to the road, and then, he smiles towards Clive, a smile so genuine that Clive can't find a way to label it as dishonest. "I've truly enjoyed getting to know you—the real you— over these past few years."

"Ah. You enjoyed being insulted, berated, scoffed at?" Clive summons up a sardonic chuckle. "You really aren't like ordinary people, professor."

"Neither are you. And it wasn't the insults that kept me coming back. Rather, I enjoyed seeing the change in your affect whenever I visited, seeing you open up, little by little, week by week. It's been a joy getting to know you, putting together the pieces of your true personality."

"When you solve that puzzle, tell me, by all means," mutters Clive. "I haven't managed to solve it yet."

"I've already solved it." The professor smiles. "You have the heart of a gentleman, although it's masked in layers of bitterness. I'd like nothing more than to give you a place where your kindness is allowed to shine through that veil."

"There's only cruelty in my heart. You're a… you're mistaken if you think that I'm anything more than a madman." He'd wanted to say that the professor was a fool, but he can't bring himself to say something so unkind. Hershel is simply… blinded by his own kind heart.

"I hope that, with some time, your perception of yourself will change, and that you'll see yourself through my eyes."

The professor's words are as pointed as they are gentle, and Clive finds it difficult to keep them from piercing through that veil of bitterness. "I'm not reformed, you know," Clive says again, after a long pause, trying to collect his thoughts. "I'm too mad for that. They shouldn't've let me out, you see. I might become violent. I might do things that hurt you. And I…" His voice breaks, to his embarrassment. "... I will most definitely be a burden to you."

"Let me be the judge of that," the professor says gravely. He turns the wheel, and the car turns off of the main road. Trees line the sidewalks on this little side road, and the sky is a brilliant blue—such a contrast to the dull yellow of future London. It's such a beautiful little neighborhood. Clive feels a sharp pang in his chest. He would have destroyed this lovely street. He would have destroyed the professor's home. He would have—

"I don't deserve this." Clive lets his face fall into his hands. "Hershel, I—"

"Everyone deserves a home, Clive."

The car stops. Hershel steps out, and, when Clive makes no move to get out, the professor opens the door for him. "We're here, Clive," he says, smiling down on him.

Clive watches the professor for a minute, then slowly threads his cramped legs through the door; one, then, laboriously, the other. "Yes, professor," he says, taking in the beauty of the verdant garden (Flora's garden) and the well-used swing in the twisted tree (Luke's swing), and the welcoming little house. "Here, at _your_ home."

"Yours too, Clive, if you choose to accept it." Clive feels a hand rest against his shoulder. "Will you come with me, my boy?"

He doesn't deserve this.

And yet…

He longs to accept it.

"If you want me to, Professor," he says softly, and lets the professor lead him through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, thank you for reading! I'm new to writing for Professor Layton, although I've been a fan for many years. I recently replayed PL3 and really latched onto Clive this time around. I love him with my whole heart, and I'm hoping to write more stories for him in the future.
> 
> If anyone is in the mood for more platonic/familial Clive/Layton, I'd really recommend reading the fics "Professor Layton and the Rewound Repercussions" and "Professor Layton and the Rewritten Return" by ThinkingCAPSLOCK. They're such beautiful fics and really inspired me in writing this story.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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